BUNGLARIES

Every town has a Bubba.  A few years ago our own version and his helpers, the Bubberettes, undertook to rob a couple of island businesses.  Typical of cyclical off-season capers, every few years for as long as I can remember, this one provided enough fodder to get us all through the winter. 

During the planning stage, a brief period earlier in the day coinciding with the time it takes three guys to consume a pack of Bud, they settled on hitting the Fishermen’s Friend, a convenience store, and the Tidewater Motel, each on the north shore of Carver’s Harbor, and they seized on an imaginative means of gaining entry.  They would bust out some windows.

I confess, I’m being a little sarcastic, reluctant to give credit for the modest level of sophistication the operation actually achieved.  In fact some thought had gone into the planning of this enterprise.  Earlier in the day, for example, the trio had unobtrusively reviewed the parade of punts occupying the nearby  float and returning to a conference in the pick up, agreed on one in particular which would suit their needs that night, one in which the oars had been left and looked to be in good shape, i.e. not swamped, a vessel in which they could vanish into the black night with their booty.  For some reason that must have made sense to the bunglers, the skiff seemed somehow a preferable means of making off with the loot to just throwing it in the truck and driving off. Accordingly then, the first order of business later that night was for one of them to retrieve said punt, row it over to Fishermen’s Friend and position it directly beneath the wharf which, in turn, was directly beneath the aforementioned window.   This task was assigned to one of the apprentices who, having seen a few old westerns but not having spent much time on the water, not enough anyway, simply tossed the line around a piling in what was nearly, but not quite, a half hitch and climbed the ladder to help with stage two. 

Approaching the window with a few rocks, the value of tireless planning again reluctantly acknowledged, they took off their T shirts, wrapped them around the stones and smashed out the window.  For a moment the sound of an apparent answering gunshot startled them nearly to sobriety until they realized that a residual rock they’d tossed overboard had struck the blade of one of the improperly shipped oars.  What they hadn’t noticed was that the discarded stone caused that particular oar to catapult itself out of the rowboat and, the north wind having picked up, make for the opposite shore.  Eager to get inside and at the goods they began pulling out the remaining shards of glass and while so doing made the shrewd and uncharacteristically collective observation that the window was, in fact, not a functioning window at all but simply a storm panel barely nailed over an opening.  A few fingers positioned themselves around the perimeter and it popped right out. 

Inside, they made first for the beer cooler and executed the efficient removal of its contents to the punt.  Planning and its product priorities uppermost, Bubba number one ran all the Budweiser to the window; Bubba number two to the wharf’s edge where number three, lying on his stomach, lowered each six pack gently, to avoid aggravating its effervescence, but quickly to the punt bobbing below just at arm’s length in the quickening northerly breeze.  Their drink of choice exhausted and following a modest debate on the merits of Bud versus the deficiencies of some of the remaining stock, the group condescended to add a few cases of Shipyard and Michelob.  These, they reasoned, could be offered to the less discriminating and all too frequent guests back at Bubba’s. 

Done with phase one, they concentrated their meager resources on the removal of less fragile commodities. Cartons of cigarettes went flying, along with the finesse they’d employed in delicately removing the beer, out the window and over the side in the direction of the empty space where the punt had, until the gathering northerly relaxed its tenuous tether on the piling, been docked. Now, though, unbeknownst to them and with a decided list due to the excess Bud stowed to port, it was chasing its prodigal oar across the harbor. 

The store’s trash can liner was freed of its contents and into it they dumped the lottery tickets they’d unreeled from the countertop dispenser, single packs of cigarettes raked from the wall rack, and all the candy bars they could gather.   Loosely knotted, the bag went blithely over the side to join the smokes heading south.    

Any patron of the Fishermen’s Friend knows the location of the safe and these guys were no exception.  Having decided, wisely, against dropping it into the presumed punt they opted for pulling and tugging the big two by three foot, six hundred pound vault to the front door and wrestling it outside.  There they found themselves flatteringly but unfavorably illuminated by the store’s big spotlight and the several neon window signs summoning the consumer’s attention to merchandise, much of which, thanks to these three, was no longer available.   Unable to get the safe up into the bed of the truck they dragged it, using scavenged boards and rope, through and among the shadows of hulls cradled at adjacent Hopkin’s Boat Yard until, much later, they arrived at a spot on the shore which afforded what they felt was enough privacy for them to begin the delicate removal of its contents, sure to be cash and more lottery tickets.   Nearby they found a plentiful supply of their weapon of choice, big rocks, and began raining these down on the safe’s door which, had they spent the last two hours dragging it in any other position but on its back, would have fallen open of it’s own volition since it was not locked, and never had been.   After a while one of the trio was dispatched to take command of the expected punt and embark on a course that would take him and the vessel to a designated spot over on Lanes Island, a place which they hoped would afford them the later luxury of retrieving the goods un-detected.  His abrupt return dampened their spirits but the news that the punt and its laboriously secured contents were gone settled over them like a great beer soaked blanket.  Frustrated that so much had gone wrong in so short a period of time, Bubba picked up a piece of angle iron and took a great swipe at the safe, inadvertently wedging the iron under the handle which, when he tried to jerk it free, lifted enough to reveal, even to these three, that the door was already open.  The anticipated cash and lottery tickets stuffed into their shirts and pants and spirits buoyed, they made good their getaway and headed up town. 

At the motel, eager to make up their losses, they busted out an awning window that was much too small for any one of them to have squeezed through before trying the door and finding it open.  Bubba ripped the cash register from its mooring, carried it out into Main Street in the advancing light of dawn and in full view of several fishermen heading down to the shore, and, cradling it like a newborn, marched to the truck, mysteriously parked nearly a hundred yards away.  There they discovered that the register too was already open and accordingly, they relieved it of its contents, a couple hundred dollars. 

As a result of this experience we, not surprisingly, began retrieving the money and locking the lobby door each night.  Quite a few folks though, encouraged us to resume our old practice of leaving the money in the register and the lobby door open.  They even provided a surveillance camera and said they’d chip in and compensate us if we were hit again.  They thought it would be worth it just to view the film.